


Fait Accompli

by fleurdelilies



Series: the fault, dear Harrie, is not in our stars [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Female Harry Potter, Genderbending, One-Shot, Other, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Year One AU, everyone else stays the same, for real, is Harry a horcrux?, like Harrie is an eleven year old girl, this is not smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-06 09:11:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20289010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleurdelilies/pseuds/fleurdelilies
Summary: On her eleventh birthday, Harriet Potter learns that the words on her arm are not to be celebrated, but to be feared.“The soulmark is a blessing from the Fates,” Neville had told her, uncharacteristically solemn. “Impossible to run from, impossible to hide.”If soulmarks were meant to be a gift, then the Fates must have had a sick sense of humor.one-shot.





	Fait Accompli

**Author's Note:**

> The following is a work of fiction. All recognizable text and/or characters are sourced from Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone (1997) and belongs to J. K. Rowling. 
> 
> It's been a while since I posted, but enjoy.

_ **fait accompli:** _

origin. Mid 19th century from French, literally ‘accomplished fact’.

def. A thing that has already happened or been decided before those affected hear about it, leaving them with no option but to accept it.

* * *

“LIAR!”

It is a savage cry, ripped straight from her throat and involuntarily breaking Harrie’s vow of silence.

Whatever the  _ thing  _ on the back of Quirrell’s head is—and Harrie can’t tell if the snakelike visage even counted as a person—its face contorts into a storm of expressions. First, its eyes widen with recognition and then shift into fleeting shock, before finally settling on snarling, inhuman rage.

Something inside Harrie breaks, sharp disappointment that feels suspiciously like hope, and what remains of Lord Voldermort rears its ugly head to face her.

* * *

Ever since the words seared themselves onto her skin on the night of her seventh birthday, Harrie Potter has known she is not alone. In the darkness of her cupboard under the stairs, the mistreated and malnourished little girl watches the wreath of words around her wrist fade from blazing light to a dim silver sheen. She does not know what they mean, for it is not written in English, but Harrie knows deep inside of her—the same way she knows she can make peculiar things happen—that there is someone out there,  _ waiting _ for her.

The following morning at breakfast, Harrie burns her hand when Aunt Petunia shrieks angrily at the sight of her mark and accidentally upends a frying pan full of hot oil. Living with the Dursleys, Harrie has no way of knowing that Muggles don’t have soulmarks, nor that her aunt is deeply resentful of the fact. It is to Harrie’s benefit, then, that the silver bracelet of words ultimately only contributes to the ‘disturbed child’ image that her relatives fostered, in order to keep her away from neighbours’ prying eyes. Indeed, what normal sane child would deliberately carve nonsense words in elegant cursive into their own flesh?

Harrie could care less about her relatives’ opinions and, for the next four years of her life, she bears her words proudly. Despite the baggy hand-me-downs and the unkempt bangs, tiny Harrie cuts an imposing figure on the playground, her emerald eyes glinting dangerously behind oft-broken spectacles. Even Dudley fears the inscription on her arm, though he still rallies his cronies to belittle and taunt his cousin, always careful to stand behind them—he sees the way his mother and father flinch at the sight of Harrie’s mark.

Although Harrie scours the dictionaries and atlases in the primary school library, her words are nowhere to be found. Still, Harrie discovers an escape in the quiet solitude behind the stacks, where she routinely hides away whenever Dudley is in a particularly giving mood. Most teachers think she is strange, even more so whenever the odd and inexplicable happens around her. On one occasion, Harrie even braves asking her aunt, but the older woman readily answers her question with a sharp smack across the cheek. 

Without any avenues left for answers, Harrie can only hope for the day when someone, anyone, can tell her what the words on her wrist mean. And, sooner rather than later, that day comes. 

In the middle of a violent lightning storm, a giant grizzly man bursts through the front door of that rickety cottage, bearing one of those mysterious letters addressed to her, Harriet Dorea Potter. Inside the envelope is the key to a whole new world,  _ her _ world. Hagrid tells her about magic, about her parents, and about a school for people who can do the things she did without ever being sneered at or called “freak.” The Dursleys listen pale and sour-faced, Dudley’s bottom trembling behind them. 

Most importantly of all, Hagrid tells her about soulmarks. Dabbing at tears with a handkerchief the size of her pillowcase, he explains that her parents were actually soulmates, tied together with a bond stronger than Death, and that they’d met at her age aboard the Hogwarts Express. 

“Ye’ll find yers soon enough,” he assures her, dark beetle eyes twinkling fondly at the sight of Harrie flushed with excitement and clutching her wrist. “But make sure to keep ‘em covered. Don’t want anyone sayin’ yer words on purpose.”

Harrie forgets, of course. 

Diagon Alley is far too exciting—too strange and unapologetically magical—for her to keep track of all of Hagrid’s warnings. With so much to learn and discover about the cobblestone streets of the wizarding world, it’s easy to forget about her soulmark.

At Madam Malkin’s, the squat friendly witch flutters around Harrie, taking her measurements while the young girl absentmindedly slips out of Dudley’s old flannel. At the sight of her skinny arms, left bare in the baggy grey t-shirt, the tape measure abruptly collapses to the floor. Nervously, Madame Malkin kindly ushers her away from the haughty gaze of a blonde mother and son, also shopping for Hogwarts.

Poor Harrie is left to wait while the witch brings in Hagrid, who can barely squeeze his massive frame in the shop and comes bearing a beribboned cage with a large snowy owl inside. When the affable giant turns pale green at the sight of Harrie’s words, her stomach drops and Hagrid mutters something about Dumbledore under his breath, before patting her consolingly on the back. Though he attempts his best reassuring smile, Hagrid’s dark eyes mist over with what suspiciously appears to be more tears. 

Before leaving the store with a pile of parcels, Madam Malkin wraps an emerald green ribbon around Harrie’s wrist. “Matches your eyes, dearie,” the short witch tells her, voice strangely choked up. “Your mother did her shopping here too, you know. Such a pretty girl, Lily was.”

That day, Harrie leaves Diagon Alley with both a dainty gold shieldmark and an understanding that, even in this wonderful world of magic, the words on her arm are—well, they’re not quite  _ right _ . 

From then on, Harrie guards her words zealously. At Hogwarts, there are too many prying eyes who observe her with either morbid curiosity or unabashed hero worship. Harrie particularly dislikes the former, going so far as to rebuff an offer of friendship extended by a redheaded boy whose conversation opener was a tactless question about her parents’ deaths. The latter, Harrie felt she does not deserve—nor does their Potions Master, who relentlessly needles the young witch over her unmerited celebrity. 

Instead, Harrie resorts to the tactics that had kept her afloat with the Dursleys: nose in books, never seen, and never heard. Above all, avoid Professor Snape like the plague.

Although she revels in the warmth and comfort of Hogwarts, Harrie soon assembles a small, tight-knit group of trustworthy lions who prove themselves loyal to her. Eventually, Hermione is to whom Harrie first accidentally reveals her words. Another careless slip, this time while exiting the showers in the girls’ bathroom, not long after the incident on Hallowe’en. Neither girl had expected timid but kind Neville Longbottom to come to their rescue, much less with the tactless Ronald Weasley in tow, but it was hard to hold a grudge against the redhead after taking down a full-grown troll together.

‘The only known survivor of the Killing Curse (A. Kedavra) is Harriet Potter, when cast by He-Who-Must-Not-Named on the night of October 31st, 1981,’ wrote Edouard Shirer in  _ The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts,  _ a glossy black tome Hermione fishes out of her trunk after glimpsing Harrie’s words. 

_ A. Kedavra.  _

_ Avada Kedavra.  _

The silver mark on her arm, which had for so long been a source of comfort to little Harrie, now seems to taunt her with cruel malice. Hugging her knobbly knees with thin arms, Harrie gathers up the shattered remains of childhood illusion inside her and lets a curtain of wild black hair shield her from Hermione’s compassionate gaze. 

But Hermione proves to be a wonderful first friend, generous with both her heart and her intellect, and shows kindness to Harrie when the young girl fears rejection. The curly-haired witch wraps her arms around Harrie in a fierce hug, before offering up her own soulmark for scrutiny. 

_ Do you have to be such a know-it-all?  _ shines silver against Hermione’s dark caramel skin. The words carry all the condescension of Draco Malfoy’s posh drawl, echoing in the dungeons after their first Potions class with the Slytherins.

The Muggle-born witch offers Harrie a watery smile. “What an unfortunate pair we make, don’t we?”

Harrie buries her head further in her arms. Though she has to admit that the obnoxious bully is certainly a terrible soulmate, especially for her brilliant Muggle-born friend, their situations are not quite comparable. At the very least, Malfoy was not directly responsible for the murder of Hermione’s parents.

“Maybe he has no mark,” Hermione consoles, stroking the dishevelled head. “Not all marks are romantic, Harrie. And for many witches and wizards, well, they’re really only what you make of them.”

By then, Harrie has spent enough time in the wizarding world to know Hermione is right, as her friend almost unfailingly was. There are some students at Hogwarts who bear no shieldmarks, wearing their bare wrists defiantly, as well as some adult couples who had reportedly ignored theirs and married despite the Fates’ blessing. Some people, Lavender Brown had whispered their first night in the castle, had been cursed with  _ unanswered  _ marks.

Still, what had been a ball of warm hope inside of Harrie’s small chest soon transforms into a hard, heavy stone of cold fury. During late nights when sleep evades her, after velvety darkness steals over Hogwarts and the burgundy curtains of her four-poster obscure her from view, Harrie opens Hermione’s copy of  _ The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts  _ and traces the words on the page with her fingertips. 

‘Although both Miss Potter’s parents perished on Hallowe’en night as a result of the Most Unforgivable Curse, their infant daughter survived the attack. The circumstances surrounding Miss Potter’s survival are generally regarded to be highly mysterious and those privy to the undisclosed details, such as Albus Dumbledore, have refused to publicly comment on the case. However, the most widely-held belief among magical researchers is that, for unknown reasons, the Killing Curse rebounded on the infant Harriet Potter, vanquishing the Dark Wizard and ending the first modern British Wizarding War (1970-1981).’

And so, all throughout that first year, Harrie holds on to one last hope: that her mark would remain unanswered.

The thought buoys her up even at Harrie’s weakest moments. During the winter holidays, the reflection in the Mirror of Erised not only reveals the full extent of the Potter family, but also shows an unmarked Harrie nestled among them, wrapped tight in her parents’ embrace. Happy, beloved, and untainted. Even after the trip to Forbidden Forest and the encounter with the cloaked figure, the threat of Voldemort’s imminent return is still not enough to dislodge this final hope from Harrie’s chest.

As their little quartet slips past the three-headed dog and climbs down the trapdoor on the third-floor, fearing the worst, Harrie focuses on stoking the painful fire in her chest. This inner ferocity propels her through the obstacles set by wizards much older and learned than she, supported by friends who did so without care for danger. Harrie is ready to face Snape, to wrench Lord Voldemort’s last lifeline from the professor’s grasp, and finally return it to Headmaster Dumbledore.

Because Harrie wants You-Know-Who dead, or obliterated from the same plane of existence as she, and she is not ashamed to admit it.

But then, when she finally reaches the stone, it isn’t Snape. It is  _ him. _

* * *

“LIAR!”

It is a savage cry, ripped straight from her throat and involuntarily breaking Harrie’s vow of silence.

Whatever the  _ thing  _ on the back of Quirrell’s head is—and Harrie couldn’t tell if the snakelike visage even counted as a person—its face contorts into a flurry of disturbing expressions. First, its eyes widen with recognition and then shift into momentary shock, before settling on snarling, inhuman rage.

Something inside Harrie breaks, sharp disappointment that feels suspiciously like hope, and what remains of Lord Voldermort rears its ugly head to face her.

_ “Of course it would be you.” _

Even though Voldemort’s face—waxy and distorted in the wavering firelight—is more furious beast than human, his sibilant voice resembles the ominous calm before the storm. Despite the wall of enchanted flames enclosing the pair, Harrie feels the ice surge in her veins.  _ Of course, it would be you.  _ And it was her, wasn’t it? It was always destined to be her. 

(“The soulmark is a blessing from the Fates,” Neville had told her, not long after she inquired about the subject, his face uncharacteristically solemn. “Impossible to run from, impossible to hide.”)

The Fates have a sick sense of humour, thinks Harrie, staring into the vicious expression of her soulmate. Whatever his previous appearance was upon their first meeting, she cannot remember it from the nightmares that have plagued her since infancy. Possibly, Voldermort was already visibly inhuman when he murdered her parents, a physical manifestation of his bloodthirsty nature and perverted soul. Now, as a parasitic presence in his host body, Voldemort’s visage is serpentine, blood-red eyes glinting with malice and a strangely fierce hunger.

“Master?”

Harrie can see Quirrell’s confused reflection in the Mirror of Erised, his hesitant question drifting between them, but she pushes the errant DADA professor out of her mind. Although possessing Quirrell had weakened Voldemort’s half-life, she is still only an eleven-year-old witch, facing off against a grown man taken over by the spirit of the most powerful Dark Wizard in the past half-century.

With the stone heavy in her pocket, Harrie needs an escape route. By then, enough time had passed since she entered the chamber for Hermione to double back and contact the headmaster. Sweat beads at the nape of Harrie’s neck, her back facing the heat of the magical flames that barred her exit. Since her only previous experience with conjured fire was Hermione’s harmless blue-bell flames, it appears that Harrie’s best bet would be to stall for time and hope Professor Dumbledore miraculously returned to save her from certain death.

_"Liar._ Did you know? Nobody ever trusted me after they saw that word,” Voldemort hisses, almost conversational despite the terrible anger in his snakelike features. “Especially not Dumbledore.”

“As if Professor Dumbledore would ever trust  _ you,"  _ Harrie snarls, feeling strangely exhilarated from the cold rage she feels coursing through her body like adrenaline. “A murderer.” 

The slit of Voldemort’s mouth distorts, oddly pulling at his waxy visage in apparent delight. You-Know-Who appears to be smiling, even amused. He thought this was  _ entertaining.  _

Harrie grips her wand tighter but is painfully cognizant of her own limited knowledge of magic. First years aren’t taught any spells that can hurt or harm, though Harrie desperately wishes that were the case. 

The unseen weight of the stone in her pocket is comforting against her leg. As long as it remains in her possession, Harrie still has the upper hand.

_ “ _ _How charming…”_ croons the hissing voice, and Quirrell’s frame startles. “Dumbledore has turned you into one of his loyal pets, hasn’t he? But does he know what you are?” Voldemort pauses, eyeing her speculatively, “Or does the headmaster count this as a victory against me?”

“Master, the stone—” protests Quirrell meekly.

_ “Silence! _ We have a guest.” Annoyance shines clear in Voldemort’s blood-red eyes and Quirrell flinches painfully. “We wouldn’t want to be impolite, would we, Quirrell?”

“Dumbledore’s twice the wizard you’ll ever be,” Harrie retorts, scrambling for a way to salvage the situation in her favour. Bullies are bullies in any context—once Voldemort gets tired of playing with his dinner, he’d order Quirrell to overpower, kill her, and then seize the stone. All would be lost and her parents’ sacrifice would be for nothing.

But not if Harrie turned the tables first. 

“You’re just a pathetic memory,” Harrie taunts, gathering her wits and forcing her hands to stop trembling. “Someone like you can never win.”

Shoulders spasming, Quirrell’s body jerks oddly, as if Voldemort had attempted to surge forward without full command of the human form he inhabited. “Your parents  _ died _ believing that, little Harrie Potter,” the serpentine visage sneers with feral rage. “Are you planning to go the same way?”

Cold fury burning inside of her, Harrie impulsively cries, “Not if I can’t take you with me!” Plunging a fist into her pocket, she pulls out the Philosopher’s Stone and turns to launch it into the flames behind her. 

Three things happen in quick succession. Firstly, Quirrell whirls around to throw himself at Harrie and wraps one hand around her slender wrist, which crunches ominously when the pair crash together against the hard cold floor. Then, the stone springs from Harrie’s grasp and skitters just within reach of the fiery entranceway, glimmering scarlet against the golden flames.

Third and last, Harrie’s scar explodes with white-hot pain like she’s never felt before, and she becomes dimly aware of a grown man howling in agony. A cry rips from her throat as the sensation threatens to consume Harrie, radiating throughout her body. For ten miserable seconds, Harrie is certain she is dying; but, to her surprise, Quirrell lets go of her smaller frame.

Instead, the wizard falls to his knees and stares at his hands in pained disbelief, the palms of which are covered in angry red blisters. Burning sensation receding enough for Harrie to clamber to her feet, she also looks down, bewildered, at her most likely broken wrist. Where Quirrell has touched her, the formerly unblemished skin appears to be swollen and burnt, raw and shiny like a new wound.

“Seize the stone and then grab the girl,” orders Voldemort from behind Quirrell’s skull, impervious to his servant’s suffering. “I want her alive! She’s  _ mine.”  _

“Master, I cannot hold her—my hands— _ my hands!” _ Quirrell sobs in distress.

Losing patience, the voice thunders, “USE YOUR WAND, YOU FOOL!” 

Quirrell reaches within his robes but—before a spell could even cross his lips—the wizard is tackled by a tiny eleven-year-old witch. If she lived to tell her friends the tale, Harrie would take special care to omit this particular stunt of suicidal recklessness.

Somehow, with a mental clarity Harrie could never explain, she lunges at the grown man and knocks him to the ground, crushing Voldemort’s face into the stone floor. Although Quirrell attempts to surge forward and throw her off, Harrie attacks with both hands outstretched: first, pressing her injured one against his face, and then, using the other to grip his wand arm tightly.

Albeit excruciating agony for both of them, Harrie holds on to the best of her ability. Tears blur her vision, forehead pulsing as if a hot knife was attempting to carve her scar open, and the magic coursing through her veins like a searing petrol fire. Ignoring all of this, small Harrie manages to keep Quirrell down. 

Ignoring the pain in his arm, Quirrell’s fingers scramble for his pocket and clench around his wand tightly. “Avada—” the young professor chokes out, levelling at Harrie with the lethal curse. 

Before her brain can process to dodge, Voldemort roars with rage, “I SAID ALIVE!” and Quirrell’s body seizes in fright. 

This time, Harrie aims her hands for Quirrell’s throat.

* * *

A glint of gold hovers just above Harrie. The Golden Snitch! Harrie’s heart soars—Oliver Wood needed her to catch the Snitch to win the final match and the Cup. But her arms are too heavy to lift. In fact, most of Harrie feels too heavy to lift, weighed down by an exceptionally comfortable plumy white duvet, the kind that Madam Pomphrey keeps in the Hospital Wing.

Harrie blinks once more, and a hazy smiling face swims into view above her.

“Welcome back, Miss Potter. I believe you might be needing these.”

Groggily, Harrie gingerly slips on her rounded metal frames and Albus Dumbledore comes into focus. The headmaster sits on the bed beside hers, which is not Hermione’s four-poster in the Gryffindor tower but instead the standard-issue Hospital Wing bed. Though a curtain had been drawn around Harrie to afford her privacy, afternoon light streams in through the tall windows of Madam Pomfrey’s domain.

But wait—Dumbledore! Harrie needs to tell him all about the stone, about Quirrell, about—about  _ him.  _

“I think the stone is destroyed,” admits Harrie lowly, shame colouring her voice. “I’m so sorry, Professor Dumbledore.”

Harrie had thrown caution to the wind in her attempt to thwart Voldemort, most likely angering Professor Dumbledore, who only sought to protect his friend’s most valued possession. And now, because of her, Nicholas Flamel would die.

“Ah, dear girl, I forget you’ve spent the last three days here. You’re a bit behind on the times,” responds Dumbledore gravely, but his blue eyes twinkle behind his half-moon spectacles. “The stone is destroyed, but not by you, Miss Potter. The Philosopher’s Stone was a most coveted prize, crafted with many protections in mind. Despite your best attempts, it was not the kind of artefact easily defeated by magical fire.”

Harrie startles. If not her, then who destroyed the stone? Certainly not  _ him.  _

“Miss Potter, do not fret. Nicholas and I have had a little chat and agreed that if he destroyed the stone, it will be for the best,” the headmaster sighs, but does not appear to be angry. “Here, have some Honeydukes chocolate.”

With surprise, Harrie turns to see her bedside table piled high with handcrafted cards and what looks like the entire contents of the Hogwarts Express sweet trolley. Reaching for the topmost card on the small mountain, Harrie opens the folded parchment to reveal the cheerful get-well-soon messages her Gryffindor dorm-mates had scrawled in magenta ink. 

“Tokens from your friends and admirers,” Dumbledore informs her with some delight. “What happened down in the dungeons between you and Professor Quirrell is a complete secret, so, naturally, the whole school knows. I believe your friends Messrs Fred and George Weasley were responsible for trying to send you a lavatory seat. No doubt they thought it would amuse you. Madam Pomfrey, however, felt it might not be very hygienic, and confiscated it.”

Harrie blushes bright pink. She doesn’t deserve this, not really. “But sir, Nicholas Flamel—”

“I see you will not be deterred, Miss Potter,” determines the headmaster, still smiling. “Rest assured, he and his wife have enough Elixir to set their affairs in order, and yes, then they will die.” 

Noticing Harrie’s downcast expression, the elder wizard continues kindly, “To one as young as you, I’m sure it seems incredible, but to Nicolas and Perenelle, it really is like going to bed after a very, very long day. After all, to the well-organised mind, death is but the next great adventure.”

“So, is  _ he  _ gone then?” Harrie asks, staring hard at the card in her hands. Lavender had signed her name with a heart-shaped flourish.

A weathered hand offers a palm-sized square of chocolate, wrapped in gold and purple paper. Harrie looked up at the headmaster, who bears a peculiar expression in his blue eyes—neither sad nor pitying, but almost commiserating.

“At the beginning of the school year, Hagrid made me aware of your unusual situation, Miss Potter,” Dumbledore speaks gently, but moisture still stings at the corners of Harrie’s eyes. “Our kind often forgets that to bear a soulmark is both a great and terrible blessing, one granted to us by the Fates themselves.”

Harrie’s cheeks are wet, but she cannot bring herself to wipe away the tears she had long suppressed.

“Miss Potter, I cannot truthfully say that the one who bears your mark has gone, nor that he won’t find some other way to return. Not being truly alive, Voldemort cannot be killed. But in many ways, the scar which he bestowed upon you, Miss Potter, has shaped you more than the soulmark that binds you together.”

Her uninjured hand drifts up to the lightning bolt that cuts across her forehead, tracing the aching scar: “How? Is that why Quirrell couldn’t touch me?”

Dumbledore’s answering smile confirms Harrie’s suspicions. “Your mother died to save you. If there is one thing Voldemort cannot understand, it is love. He didn’t realise that love as powerful as your mother’s for you leaves its own mark. Not a scar, no visible words … to have been loved so deeply, even though the person who loved us is gone, will give us some protection forever. It is in your very skin. Quirrell, full of hatred, greed, and ambition, sharing his soul with Voldemort, could not touch you for this reason. It was agony to touch a person marked by something so good.”

The headmaster hands her a daintily embroidered handkerchief, moons and stars bordering the edges, to wipe the tears that fogged up Harrie’s glasses. “My mother… Is that why Voldemort couldn’t kill me? Or was it the soulmark? Why did Voldemort want to kill me in the first place?”

“The truth, Miss Potter, is a beautiful and terrible thing, to be treated with great caution. I do not wish to lie, but forgive me, some answers... Yes, some answers, Harriet, are best left for when you are older.”

And Harrie knew it would be no use to argue.

The headmaster rose from the bed, midnight blue robes swirling about him. “It appears, Miss Potter, that your friends have been informed of your improvement. I do hope you feel well enough to join us in time for the Farewell Feast.”

Then Hermione, Neville, and Ron sprint thunderously into the Hospital Wing, and all thoughts of Dumbledore and her soulmate are pushed out of Harrie’s mind.

* * *

A week into Harrie’s summer holiday with the Dursleys and it already seems like Hogwarts was a distant daydream, something conjured up from imagination. Only Hedwig, shuttered inside her cage, serves as a constant reminder of the world that loves and welcomes Harrie as one of their own. Last year’s calendar hangs on her wall, but Harrie still uses it to count down the days until September 1st.

Already Harrie had been punished, locked in her room without meals, for waking the Dursleys in the middle of the night with her nightmares. It wasn’t as if she could help it. Every night, she dreams of the stone chamber deep in the bowels of Hogwarts, the heat of uncontrollable flames pressing in on all sides.  _ ‘She’s mine,’  _ hisses a sibilant voice, before green light explodes and Harrie wakes screaming. 

Beating her wings against the bars of her cage, Hedwig’s alarmed screeching also rouses the Dursleys, and Uncle Vernon had already threatened to bring in an exterminator for Harrie’s “ruddy owl.”

“I’m sorry!” Harrie shouts through the door and thumps the wood for good measure, before sliding down to sit with her back against it. The witch runs her hands through her dishevelled hair and winces—her wrist was still stiff from the brace.

“I’m sorry,” she repeats, quieter and sincerer words towards her familiar, who hoots softly in understanding. Although owl treats are all well and good, Harrie often tries to sneak Hedwig some more nutritious scraps from her own plate.

Crawling so as to not disturb the Dursleys, Harrie reaches under her bed and pries a floorboard loose. Hidden there, carefully wrapped in one of Dudley’s old t-shirts, is Hagrid’s parting gift: a handsome, leather-bound book full of wizarding photographs of her mother and father.

To ward off the nightmares, she traces their faces hungrily, searching for the similarities that make her theirs. Her father’s unruly dark hair, her mother’s luminescent green eyes. The two people who had loved Harrie so much that they were willing to die for her. Because if she belongs to anyone, then she belongs to them, Lily and James Potter, even after death. 

Not  _ him,  _ never him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading if you have gotten this far. This is meant to be a one-shot, but I hope to write more if I have time. Other authors on this site have also played with the Fem!Harry/Voldemort soulmark trope before myself, and I encourage you to go check them out (off the top of my head, mayfriend's she walks in beauty series is recommendable).
> 
> \--
> 
> EDIT: Just came back to fix a few formatting errors I found!
> 
> One final thing, I did want to say that this entire one-shot is written from Harrie's perspective, and at the moment she is an eleven-year-old girl. Further one-shots (if I get around to them) would certainly address Harrie's home life, of which she has shared minimally with her friends, and her complex relationships with the adults around her. Dumbledore is a difficult guy, and his own soulmark is a turbulent story, not to mention Snape. So these relationships might diverge from canon, especially as Harrie gets older.
> 
> Once again, I really appreciate everyone who has taken the time to kudos and comment!
> 
> \--
> 
> EDIT: Part two has been posted. Also, after revisiting this fic, I decided to update the verb tenses to make for a better flow. No major plot changes.


End file.
